A Young Mayor Faces His First Test
After the city council came the press. The reporters already had yesterday's policy pledge book in hand, and they weren't doing a very good job of hiding their astonishment.
"Mr. Mayor, reading through the policy materials, we noticed a strong emphasis on administrative reform. Can the bureaucracy really be expected to fall in line with your agenda?"
"On economic revitalization, you've pledged to strengthen support for young entrepreneurs. How exactly do you plan to secure the funding?"
"Your urban space reform proposal calls for pursuing downtown regeneration and restrained new-town expansion at the same time. Isn't there a real risk of friction with the existing developers?"
The questions came in a steady stream, though most of them were more plausible than probing.
Frankly, a small city of a hundred thousand like Yeojin simply doesn't have many talented journalists. It's an unavoidable reality of the place.
Just as they say you have to send people to Seoul to develop them, most bright minds head straight for the capital. And the talented few who remain eventually drift off to the bigger cities nearby.
What's left behind are almost no young reporters at all. Typically, someone born here tried another line of work first, then founded a newspaper on their own — serving as both publisher and managing editor, with a single accountant to handle the paperwork. That's the standard operation.
The papers don't sell well, either. A large share of their revenue depends on advertising, and how many companies in a small town have money to spend on ads?
With only a handful of factories around, the natural path is to become the reporter accredited to city hall, running stories on the city's major policies and event advertisements to stay afloat. Which means, almost by accident, these outlets become mouthpieces for the government.
On top of that, in a small regional community everyone is tangled together through school ties, hometown ties, and blood ties. A press willing to deliver uncomfortable truths barely exists in that kind of environment.
From where I stood, this made them a perfectly serviceable trumpet when I needed one. Used well, it was all to the good.
I used to look at this situation with pity. But now that I was the mayor — honestly, how could things be better?
That said, they wouldn't automatically do my bidding either. Because while I did have a National Assembly father's backing, I was still a mayor in my twenties. A by-election winner, no less — and if the political map shifted, a second term could vanish overnight.
So they kept me at arm's length: not making things needlessly hard for me, but not treating me as a pushover either. We were all feeling out that ambiguous middle ground, and this was exactly the moment for it.
I worked through their questions one by one. Since every policy had come out of my own head, explaining them posed no difficulty.
That said, now that I was a politician, I couldn't lay everything bare. I stayed general — offering direction and principle while keeping the specifics to myself.
Then one of the reporters caught my eye. Noh Hwa-yeon — a young woman with a face that made her look barely out of her twenties.
Her questions were on another level entirely.
"Mr. Mayor, your policies seem aimed at very rapid execution. The civil service is conservative by nature. Couldn't pushing that hard actually backfire?"
It sounded like a simple question, but it carried a real doubt about my political style. I answered with a light smile.
"I've given that plenty of consideration. I'll aim for fast execution, yes, but I'll also mind the internal coordination process. What matters isn't speed — it's direction."
She came back at me the instant the words left my mouth.
"You were elected in a by-election, which leaves you barely two years in office. That's exactly why I'd expect speed to be on your mind."
A proper reporter's question. I paused to think it over.
"In my view, two years is plenty. Will everything take root in that time? Honestly, no. But it's more than enough time to make a serious attempt, and if results follow, I believe the public will embrace them. We're only at the stage of trying, so I can't promise exact answers yet. If you have good suggestions as we go, I'll make sure they're heard."
And with that, I made a pleading little gesture — as if asking for her help. I could feel the slightly stiff atmosphere in the room soften.
The reporter pressed on immediately.
"The supertall landmark project and the shopping complex plan that your predecessor championed as campaign promises — both are missing from your platform. And there's not a single mention of the subway line connecting us to Gwangseong City next door. People in this community say these projects are essential. Did you deliberately exclude them? Can you explain?"
This one's different, I thought. Hitting the nail square on the head at her very first press briefing.
I answered with an easy smile.
"Wow — you've already gone through the materials I handed out at city hall before this morning's meetings? That was fast. Impressive."
I gave her a thumbs-up.
"Of course, I consider them important projects. But both depend on attracting private investment as their core. No matter how hard the administration works, that's not something that gets solved in the short term. I'll do my utmost to bring good companies in. There's no need for anyone to worry."
Having laid out the reality, I went straight on.
"As for the subway — it requires national subsidies, and we have to match those funds with money of our own. For a city with a fiscal independence rate of barely ten percent, that's no small problem. It's a regional rail line, so naturally Gwangseong City will have to shoulder a heavy share of the burden too. I'll present a realistic solution before long."
Noh Hwa-yeon chewed over my answer for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
She wasn't a reporter who simply lobbed questions. She was the kind who dug into the facts and put her finger on the essence of things. Someone I'd need to keep an eye on going forward.
The city council, then the press. In a single day, I had completed the first political steps of my term.
Kim Jun-tae would have realized by now that I was no mere scarecrow of a mayor, and the reporters would have registered that I was better prepared than they'd expected.
And I was now ready to start moving in earnest.
The moment I stepped into the mayor's office the next morning, Cho Yeon-woo, head of the Urban Planning Division, walked in alongside Kang Seol-heon, my Chief of Staff.
I had good memories of Cho Yeon-woo from my previous life. I'd gone to meet a division head in his thirties and found a man more courteous than the staff assigned to him — someone who, when pushing work forward, focused on substance over pointless formalities.
He was also the one who'd tried to help me to the very end, back when problems arose and I was struggling. We'd crossed paths a few times in meetings, but this was the first time I was meeting him face to face.
For an ordinary division head, showing up unannounced this early in the morning was unheard of. The standard procedure was to check the mayor's open slots through the secretariat and request a formal briefing.
The fact that Cho Yeon-woo had come straight to us at dawn, with the Chief of Staff in tow, meant this wasn't just any report. Something urgent had broken.
As expected, he came to the point the moment he walked in.
"Mr. Mayor, we have a serious situation with the old downtown in front of city hall."
The decline of the old downtown. That wasn't Yeojin's problem alone. Provincial cities across the country were watching their populations shrink and their young people leave, and the commercial vacancy rates climbed higher as naturally as night follows day.
Foot traffic dwindled, the local economy stagnated, and the cycle repeated itself.
All of that was expected. The problem was what the old downtown merchants were demanding.
"The merchants are asking us to widen the roads."
I was briefly taken aback.
"...Widen the roads?"
"Yes. Most of the old downtown currently has two-lane roads. The merchants' logic is that traffic is inconvenient, so expanding the roads will bring more people in."
I gave a hollow laugh.
"And does that actually make sense to you?"
Through the eyes of anyone trained in urban planning, the logic that widening roads would increase foot traffic was completely backwards. Converting the existing two lanes to one-way traffic — or better yet, making them car-free streets — was far more likely to activate the area around pedestrians.
The real problem was that the district's structure made it impossible to walk anywhere. Widening the roads might get more cars moving through, sure — but those cars wouldn't stop at the shops. Their demand had nothing to do with reviving the local economy at all.
"Even so, the merchants' demands are growing louder, and a formal meeting request with you has come in," Kang Seol-heon added, her face clouded with concern.
"The feeling on the ground is that a young mayor might just cave if they push hard enough."
"Naturally."
I nodded and smiled.
A young mayor draws exactly two kinds of expectation. One is reform. The other is weakness.
If they expected me to be a mayor capable of change, that was wonderful. But if they'd mistaken me for someone who could be talked into anything, they had miscalculated badly.
"I told them we'd set up a meeting," Cho Yeon-woo said carefully.
I shook my head and corrected him.
"No — tell them I'll meet them right now."
Kang Seol-heon and Cho Yeon-woo both stared at me.
"Right now?"
"Yes. There's no point dragging this out and feeding their expectations. We meet now, and we settle it clearly."
I rose from my seat.
"Where are the old downtown merchant representatives right now?"
"They're already waiting inside city hall for the meeting with you."
"Then let's go."
Chief of Staff Kang Seol-heon caught my arm and held me back for a moment.
"You need to understand exactly what you're walking into before you move. And if the mayor grants a meeting this easily just because people show up at city hall demanding one, this will keep happening."
She took a breath and pressed on.
"If you make careless promises of action without consulting the responsible department, the morale of the civil servants handling the work right now will collapse. And the public will walk away with the impression that 'all it takes is one meeting with the mayor.'"
She wasn't wrong. But I couldn't say I cared for the approach.
During the campaign, she'd offered me this kind of advice several times too. Still — I'd already heard the core of the issue, however briefly. Wasn't judging the finer details exactly why you sat down with the people involved?
Frankly, in a city of barely a hundred thousand, should meeting the mayor really be as difficult as reaching for the stars?
Policy process mattered, but a mayor hearing his citizens' voices directly was an essential part of governing too. A little flexibility, that's all I was asking for.
Thoughts flickered through my head, but what I actually said to Kang Seol-heon was simple.
"I hear you, and I understand the concern. What I'm interested in is the road-widening question itself — the substance of it. I want to hear what they have to say. Don't worry so much."
She still wore a worried expression, but she didn't argue further.
I walked straight out of the mayor's office.
In the conference room, I met with the representatives of the old downtown merchants.
As I shook hands and made introductions down the line, I realized what an interesting group had assembled. The merchants hadn't come alone — the president of the landlords' association was with them. The building owners had come along too.
Just as I'd expected, their demand was a road expansion to four lanes at minimum.
"The road's too narrow, that's why people don't come, Mr. Mayor. Widen it to four lanes and foot traffic goes up, and business comes back to life."
I simply listened.
The road is narrow, so people stay away?
The logic was absurd. Building an environment people could actually walk in was the far more realistic route to foot traffic.
But in their minds, a simple equation evidently held: wider road means more cars passing their storefronts, which means more customers.
I sat through an hour or so of their demands while Kang Seol-heon and Cho Yeon-woo took notes beside me, their expressions growing graver by the minute.
When the list was finally exhausted, I smiled with perfect composure.
"I'll look into it carefully."
In that instant, a subtle shift crossed the representatives' faces.
"Well now — the young mayor really is different."
"He says he'll review it. That's hope enough for one day."
Wearing the satisfied expressions of men who'd just won a concession, they filed out of the conference room.